


Scars

by NahaFlowers



Category: Black Sails
Genre: <-- that's in all in the past but there's mentions of it throughout, Angst, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Pre-Canon, Shame, Smut, Suicide Attempt, the sex is pretty mild and non-explicit though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-19 00:20:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11885961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NahaFlowers/pseuds/NahaFlowers
Summary: James once caught a glimpse of one of Thomas's scars. Thomas quickly hid it and changed the subject. Now they're together and about to make love for the first time. Thomas blows out the candles so they're in the dark - he doesn't want James to see his scars.





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Please please please heed the warnings on this fic! There's nothing _extremely_ explicit, but Thomas's abuse at the hands of his father is mentioned throughout. Written after discussing Thomas's pre-canon/pre-Bedlam scars with [copper-toned](http://copper-toned.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. I'd also like to give a shoutout to [Wind_Ryder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Ryder/pseuds/Wind_Ryder), whose fic [You Can't Handle The Truth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11134482/chapters/24846801) has the best handling of Thomas's past abuse that I've read, and has inspired me a _lot_. Also thanks to [AstronautSquid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstronautSquid/pseuds/AstronautSquid) for encouraging me to write more in this vein.

The first time they fucked in the dark.

Thomas had been worried that even by doing so, James may have caught on to his game. He had caught sight of a scar on his wrist, once, when Thomas’s long arms had stretched out of his puffy sleeves while pointing to a particular sentence, or figure, or map reference, he forgets what. James has stilled immediately, and Thomas’s eyes had been drawn to him questioningly - but James’s eyes had been fixed on his exposed wrist. Thomas drew his arm back into his sleeve, annoyed he had let it be seen - he usually kept his scars so carefully hidden - but James was not to be deterred.

“Thomas,” he had said, his voice like steel, and though they had technically been on first name terms then, James almost always used his with an air of embarrassment, slipping back into formality when he thought he could get away with it. Not this time, however. “What’s that mark on your wrist?”

“It’s nothing,” said Thomas, in an airy voice, but James merely narrowed his eyes at him. Thomas sighed. Perhaps a change of subject was in order. “I must say, James, your uniform is looking particularly fetching today. And your hair is so neat, not a strand out of place. May I ask how you get it so?”

James always got so adorably confused and abashed when Thomas flirted with him, and Thomas was not above using it to distract him from the matter at hand. “Practice, my Lord,” he said, once he had recovered his faculties, “and thank you.” A rose blush coloured high in his cheeks and Thomas thought, not for the first time, how utterly _pretty_ he was, like a flower in early bloom.

He nodded. “I once thought of growing mine out, but it was not considered proper for a Lord’s son.”

“Really, my Lord?” James had all but stuttered, and Thomas could not imagine what images are playing through the Lieutenant’s head, but he had the man well and truly confounded now, and could return to the matter at hand.

“Indeed,” he said, steepling his fingers and hiding a smile behind them. “Perhaps we can return to the matter at hand, then, Lieutenant,” he continued after a moment, and no more was spoken on the matter, although Thomas sometimes caught James glancing at his wrists and knew that James had not forgotten the glimpse he had caught of Thomas’s scars.

So now, they were here, and Thomas blew the candles out before he so much as removed his cravat (which in fact covered the most damning of all his scars) hoping James would not comment upon it.   
James didn’t say a word, on that matter or any other, merely stripped off and lay face down on the bed.

Oh. _Oh_.

“James,” Thomas whispered into the darkness, “you’ve done this before, yes?”

“You mean I’ve been fucked by men before?” James said, and the shame and self-loathing in his voice made Thomas cringe.

Thomas stood there for a moment, not knowing what to say, or do. All of a sudden, the idea of making love to James in the dark, as if it was shameful, something to hide, something to _be_ ashamed of, seemed reprehensible to Thomas. Thomas would not let James lie there on the bed in the dark and simply _be fucked_ him, as if that was all this was, just a meaningless fuck, and not one of the most important moments of Thomas’s (and, he hoped, James’s) life. But the idea of relighting the candles, of bringing the shameful secrets of his own childhood so mercilessly into the light…it was something he could not bear to do. Not yet. He dithered.

“Thomas,” said James from the bed, “ _please_ ,” and there was pain in that voice, but there was lust and desire too.

Thomas went to the bed and climbed on, behind James, pulling the smaller man into his arms, spooning him, ignoring the hardness between his legs or the way James jerked when he felt it. He kissed his neck softly. “James,” he whispered plaintively into the skin there.

Thomas could feel the surprise in the tension of his body - the way it released and then tensed up again, in a different manner, as James twisted around to face him.

“Thomas, what-?” he asked, but was cut off with a kiss.

“Hush, my love,” he said, brushing his thumb tenderly over James’s jawline.

James’s eyes sought his in the dark, and they looked…confused. _What_ , thought Thomas slightly angrily, _did he really think I was just going to fuck him like any old bit of rough might, not kiss him, stroke him, treat him like he was the most precious thing in the world?_

_Perhaps_ , he thought, stomach clenching, _he believed that I only wanted to get him into bed, to have him and be done with him, as if all that had happened between them in the past few months, James’s words at the dinner table, defending him against his father - didn’t mean a thing, in the grand scheme of things. Didn’t mean absolutely_ everything.

“James,” said Thomas, his hand finding James’s, lacing their fingers together - he heard James’s breath hitch, “when I asked - I meant had you been with a man before, to be sure, but I also meant,” he took a deep breath, “had you made love with a man before?”

“Made love?” asked James, the words sounding foreign on his tongue, as if he were not sure such a thing was even possible. “How does that work?”

Thomas wanted to cry - his voice was so brazenly disbelieving, as if he knew such a thing just could not be, and yet…there was a quiver to it that was not quite convinced, that was so unsure, that wanted that to be possible, wanted Thomas to _make love_ to him. Thomas was damn well going to do his best to try and persuade him.

“Like this,” he said, and set to work.

He made love to every inch of James, kissing and sucking and lathing with his tongue, stroking his face and hair and back and arse and cock, each part of James equally cared for and loved, for Thomas could find fault with no part, loved every bit of James equally.   
He murmured sweet affection and obscene suggestion indiscriminately, calling forth hums and moans and cries from James’s lips, encouraging them out, and now was when he was regretted most leaving the candles unlit, for he was sure James would be bright and flushed from his cheeks to his arse, a masterpiece come to life beneath Thomas’s deft fingers and defter words. When their bodies finally came together, thrusting and pulsing and gasping their way to the most exquisite climax, James could be in no doubt that he was loved, body and soul, by the man whose body was so intimately joined with his.

Except-

Except they had still fucked in the dark. Thomas had not trusted James enough to show him all of him, despite the man earning his trust twice over, despite having defended Thomas against friend and foe, despite having stood up against his father for him and made him leave, in a way that no one ever had before. James would not see his scars as shameful. They were his father’s shame, anyway, not his. His father’s, and the shame of those who had not done all they could to help him, as Miranda had so fiercely told him, again and again, whenever he felt able to tell another piece of his story.

Thomas never quite believed it, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he wanted to. Miranda saw that, and pursed her lips, but did not press him, merely repeating that it was not his fault and not his shame to bear.

James was lying in his arms, having dozed off after the intensity of their lovemaking, sleepy and soft. Thomas was loathe to wake him, but - he deserved to know, and Thomas knew that if he didn’t show him now, he would have lost his nerve by the morning.

Steeling himself, Thomas placed a kiss in James’s hair, then whispered in his ear. “James, my love, I need you to wake up, I need to show you something.”

James grumbled in his sleep, then came to slowly, eyes blinking. “What?” he asked.

Thomas sucked in a breath. “I’m afraid it’s not very pleasant,” he said, sitting up, and James sat up too, practically shot up, reaching forward to touch Thomas’s shoulder.

“Thomas, did I - I didn’t - hurt you?” he said with difficulty, pain and fear and that horrible, horrible self-loathing all too evident in his voice.

“No,” said Thomas, a bitter laugh trying to make its way up his throat. “No, of course not, James,” he reassured, and felt him sag with relief. “ _You_ didn’t hurt me.” And with that, he lit the tinderbox and transferred the sparks to the candle, which flared up and lit the room. Although not a bright light by any means, the candlelight seemed blinding to both men, who had spent the past hour or so in complete darkness.

Thomas stood, body bared to the full view of James, as his eyes adjusted to the light. Thomas, in contrast, squeezed his eyes tight shut, unable to see the look in James’s eyes when he saw the scars.

There was a sharp intake of breath and the creak of the bed springs - James had obviously knelt up, as a moment later, he felt James’s warm breath on his chest, and then his hands, gentle as anything, gentler than anyone who knew him would expect the lieutenant to be, on his shoulders, ghosting around the scars there. Thomas suppressed a shiver.

“Christ, Thomas.” James’s voice sounded devastated. Thomas, eyes still closed, felt James’s hands ghosting down to his wrists. He brought one, then the other, to his lips, and kissed them. Thomas was using every last ounce of his extensive and hard-won self control not to break down in tears. “Is this why you wouldn’t tell me what I saw on your wrist, that day?”

Thomas nodded. “I put you off, because I couldn’t bear you knowing. But now,” he took a deep breath, “I find I cannot keep anything from you, even this.”

He opened his eyes, finally, to see James looking straight back at him. His eyes looked…lost, almost, for a second, but then it swayed into a more calculating glance.

James Mcgraw knew him far too well, now, to be put off asking the important questions by Thomas’s emotional manipulation, and Thomas was ashamed of even trying.

“Go on then,” he said, feeling trepidation but also a touch of something that felt sickeningly like anticipation, “ask.”

“Your father?” asked James, although there was barely an inflection in his voice, as if he already knew, and Thomas worried briefly that Miranda had told James, but he knew she would never do that. She was the only one who knew his whole story, and that was only because he trusted her completely to tell no one else of it, had made her swear to that on their wedding night, when she had first seen the scars and asked about them, as he had known she would.

“Is it that obvious?” he asked, coming to the only conclusion possible - that anyone, upon seeing he and his father together, would see their history written all over their faces, their interactions with each other - that Thomas, though clothed, would be laid bare before any stranger’s eyes, as a victim at his father’s hand, as if they could see the scars so carefully hidden beneath layers of fabric.

James’s pitying glance simply confirmed this, and Thomas felt at once both the urge to hide himself away - blow out the candle, dress himself, wrap himself in blankets, hide in the darkest corner of the house as he had so oft as a child, hoping if he found a place dark enough, he could disappear forever, and his father would never find him - and to lash out, yell that he was not some poor creature to be pitied, that he was stronger and better than his father had ever been, and he was going to prove it, if only to avoid the pitying glances of strangers. But James wasn’t a stranger, and his eyes held Thomas’s only a moment before they fell to his neck. Thomas felt his stomach turn over.

“And that one?” James not even daring to _touch_ the scar around his neck.

“I tried to commit suicide,” he said in a blank voice, as if he had just said “I tried to eat all this food.”

James, who up until had been upset and pitying, almost a man in grief, looked up at him with dark rage swirling in his eyes. “I’m going to fucking kill him,” he said, and Thomas, despondently, thought he was glad that he hadn’t told James just how young he had been.

James, however, seemed to be getting dressed.

“What are you doing?” asked Thomas, slightly dazed.

James looked Thomas’s body up and down, appraising, and Thomas felt a full body shiver run its way right through him. James’s brow furrowed even deeper.

“You heard what I said.” He bit out the words between gritted teeth, rage barely suppressed. “I’m going to murder your father.”

Thomas realised, just in time, that James wasn’t exaggerating or bluffing. He was literally going to trek across London in the dead of night and stick a sword in his father. He gripped his shoulder.

“James, you can’t,” he said, and James twisted around in his grip and looked up at him with such raw, animal pain that Thomas almost let go.

“I can’t let him get away with it,” said James, not resisting his grip, but practically begging Thomas to let him go all the same.

Thomas took a deep, shaky breath. “He’s already gotten away with it,” he said. At that, James squeezed his eyes shut, as if he could not bear to face the truth Thomas had spoken. Thomas drew him into his arms, and at that, James clutched him tighter and began stroking every inch of him he could reach, as if he had just been given permission to do so. The tears that Thomas had held back for so long were falling in earnest now, dripping hot into James’s hair, and Thomas buried his face in it and sobbed, feeling James doing the same, and then feeling him draw back, just slightly, so he could kiss every inch of Thomas he could reach. Every scar, tiny, long, thick, ridged, well-healed, faded - every single one received James’s softest, most fervent kisses, until he had worn himself out and they both stood, panting and weeping in each other’s arms.

Eventually, Thomas guided James, still partially clothed, to the bed, where they lay down beside each other, facing each other. James traced patterns on his chest, almost aimlessly, although now and then his fingers would stroke over the scars, feeling the slightly incongruous texture beneath them.

“You know,” said Thomas, thoughtfully, after they had lain there a while, “he may have gotten away with it,” James clenched his fist where his hand lay against Thomas’s chest, “but so have I. I got away. I survived. I’m alive, James.” For a moment, he allowed himself to feel euphoric about that fact - he was here, alive, with a man he loves in his arms, and that small victory somehow seemed like it was worth celebrating. James smiled up at him, confused, but clearly unwilling to break Thomas’s momentary euphoria. After a moment Thomas sighed, wilted very slightly. They still had a mountain to climb, if they were to beat his father once and for all.

“Is that why you blew the light out?” he asked. “You were afraid of how I’d react?”

“Well, I didn’t quite expect you to go out and attempt to _kill_ my father,” he said, a laugh in his voice at the beautiful absurdity of it all, “but yes, more or less.”

James looked sheepish and defiant all at once. “I still would, you know. If you ever wanted me to.”

Thomas laughed harshly. “Do you think I’ve never thought of that? But I can’t. It would be too dangerous and besides,” he smiled painfully, “wouldn’t that make me as bad as him?”

“Thomas,” said James, ardently, “ _nothing_ could ever make you as bad as him. I need you to know that. _Nothing_ , alright?”

“Alright,” Thomas agreed, kissing him on the forehead. “And for the record I certainly wouldn’t judge you so harshly if you _were_ to kill him…” James raised an eyebrow as Thomas trailed off. “But I would prefer to fight him, to defeat him, in different ways.”

“Nassau,” James breathed.

“Nassau,” Thomas affirmed, and he pressed his forehead to James’s, as though the place was a prayer, an answer to all of their problems, a way to save their very souls.

Nassau.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'd say that this could fit into canon, except for the fact that, faced with Alfred Hamilton again (especially with his world being ripped out from under his feet), James would probably have strangled him on sight).
> 
> Any and all feedback is highly appreciated. I always feel slightly nervous about posting fics like this, just because it's such a sensitive subject to be dealing with, but honestly, it's key for me in terms of Thomas's character. 
> 
> I promise i don't just write angst! (And that said, any fluffy Flinthamilton - or Flinthamiltons, or Silverflinthamilton - prompts would be very appreciated right now!)


End file.
